


et si tu n'existais pas

by pasdexcuses



Category: Les chansons d'amour | Love Songs (2008)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:25:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdexcuses/pseuds/pasdexcuses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ismaël is not a summer person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	et si tu n'existais pas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Odyle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odyle/gifts).



**Disclaimer:** This work is based on the characters as portrayed in the film _Les chansons d’amour_. And, obviously, I’m not making any money from this. Title from Joe Dassin’s ‘Et si tu n’existais pas.’

 

“ _Ismaël, it’s Jeanne. We’re doing lunch this Sunday and maman—_ ” 

Ismaël stabs his phone. After two weeks of leaving the office at 3 am every day, he’s in a mood. He strips down to his boxers, takes the side of the bed facing the window and goes to sleep with his back to Erwann, who’s already breathing steadily. 

 

The sunlight filtering through a gap in the curtains wakes him up first. The pain of knocking over a pile of books when he stretches makes Ismaël open his eyes. Ismaël is not a summer person. 

He groans. “Students.” 

Erwann makes a noise, rolling over. “Not today,” he slurs, somehow managing to make it sound smug because, while work is killing Ismaël, Erwann just finished his exams. Then, Erwann adds, “This wouldn’t happen at your place.”

And that, Ismaël is not expecting. He closes his eyes tight, willing the moment to pass. He braces himself for yet another awkward silence, for another question he cannot answer. Because it’s not like he’s still in love with Julie. It’s just that it doesn’t feel right, letting Erwann into that place. Not when Jeanne is there half the time and not when that used to be Julie’s place. _Her_ space. 

Ismaël braces himself but the question never comes. Instead, he feels Erwann scooting closer. Soon, he’s spooning Ismaël into relaxation. Erwann brushes the hair on Ismaël’s forehead. “Kiss me,” he says, his lips brushing against Ismaël’s neck. 

Ismaël takes his time but he eventually turns in Erwann’s arms to give Erwann the weakest, most discouraging kiss since the dawn of time. Which sucks, and Erwann doesn’t hesitate in saying so. Ismaël shakes his head but he’s already smiling. 

“Always asking for more,” he says, kissing Erwann properly.

 

Jeanne calls him again. Five more times until Ismaël finally picks up. 

“You’re just like her. Never picking up,” she says by way of greeting. 

Ismaël rolls his eyes. “Listen, Jeanne, I’m not sure I can come. I have a lot of work and—”

“You always did make her birthday miserable.”

Ismaël remains silent for a second too long. When he finally speaks, his voice sounds hoarse, wrong. “I did not.”

And Jeanne must realize she crossed a line because next she is saying a gentle voice, “No, no you didn’t.” Then, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“I… I’ve never really liked summer,” Ismaël says, because he knows what Jeanne sounds like when she’s trying hard not to cry. 

There’s a wet chuckle on Jeanne’s end of the line. “I’m not sure I like summer anymore,” she says. “But we want you there on Sunday. Please.”

Ismaël sighs. “Of course.”

 

It seems wrong, to sleep with Erwann right before lunch with the Pommerayes, so Ismaël goes back to his apartment on Friday. The cream, which he’d meant to throw out the last time he was there, has gone bad enough to make everything in his fridge smell rancid. He ends up throwing out everything on Saturday morning. 

Saturday night, Ismaël stands in the middle of his apartment and looks around. His drawers are depressingly empty, and not just because Jeanne was ruthless with Julie’s things. After Julie’s death, she started going to a support group that had her convinced emptying out the apartment was an important part of dealing with grief. She went on and on about it for so long that Ismaël got tired of explaining she was emptying out his half of the apartment. 

Ismaël sighs. Half of _his_ things are not in the apartment. He never intended to slowly move out of this flat and into Erwann’s tiny bedroom. It just… happened. Between trying to escape from Jeanne and all those late nights, it started making sense. Winter became spring and spring became summer and now Ismaël can no longer hide it if he’s been wearing the same clothes three days in a row. It doesn’t help that the clothes he used to borrow were always a size too small for him. 

It’s the middle of summer now and, since he’s already here, Ismaël figures he might as well pack for another week at Erwann’s. He stares at his drawers, trying to decide how many shirts is too many shirts to take back with him. Ismaël twirls the keys to Erwann’s place in his hand and tries not to think too hard about it.

On Sunday, Ismaël isn’t in the mood for breakfast. He takes a quick shower, and leaves his bag by the door to pick it up when he gets back from lunch. 

 

It’s too hot outside and four different groups of tourists stop him. He glares at the one who asks which way to the Tour Eiffel. He really despises summer. 

 

Lunch is quiet. It hasn’t been as loud, not since Julie died, but today it’s even quieter. Ismaël makes no jokes and Julie’s father doesn’t try to argue the merits of Flaubert. It’s so quiet that Ismaël doesn’t know what to do with himself once the food is finished and the women pick up the plates. There’s no cake to follow because Julie isn’t there to blow out the candles. But Ismaël follows them into the kitchen, because that’s what he used to do when he came over with Julie. 

He washes the plates with them, decides to stay a moment when they’re all done. He closes the door and lights a cigarette. The last time he was in this kitchen, Julie was still alive. Ismaël remembers her standing over the large window in the kitchen. He remembers Julie staring down the same street. It was raining the last time she did that. And now sunlight is blazing through the glass and the people on the street are not wearing black. 

He stays there long enough for someone to come back for him. He’s expecting Jeanne to come get him, or Julie’s father but it’s Jasmine who pushes the door and asks for a cigarette. They’re both quiet while the smoke. 

Jasmine breaks the silence first. “We all know, Ismaël.”

There’s a million things that they could know but Ismaël’s mind fixes on Erwann. His stomach drops. “You all know?”

Jasmine gives him a look she learned from Julie, and for a moment, Julie is standing right in front of him. And she’s saying, _do you really think I’m that stupid?_

“That you’re seeing someone else,” Jasmine clarifies.

“How—”

“And we’re happy for you,” she continues. “You seem… happier. Perhaps even happier than you were with Julie.”

“Jasmine.”

She places a hand on his arm and squeezes tight. “It’s okay. We love you.”

His throat goes tight. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Which is why you should bring her over. My parents wished you’d be here more often.”

“I…” Ismaël starts but doesn’t know how to continue.

“It doesn’t have to be tomorrow, Ismaël,” Jasmine says, saving him from himself. “But… you’re family, to us.”

Ismaël lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He says, “To me, too.” And in a whim of something, because Jasmine is here, talking to him because he couldn’t bring himself to tell any of them, he adds, “And it’s a him.”

At this, Jasmine breaks into a smile. “Well, we look forward to meeting him.” 

They light two more cigarettes in silence. 

 

What Jasmine said dances around in his head the rest of the day. He’s still going over her words when he gets back to his place and falls face-first on his bed. 

Ismaël wakes up late next morning, still thinking about it. He picks up his bag and stares at his half-empty, half-lived apartment. 

A second later he’s running downstairs and around the corner where there’s hardware store. And even though it’s a Monday and he should already be at work, Ismaël makes his way back to Erwann’s place. From the street he can see the curtains are still drawn, which means Erwann is home, asleep. Ismaël shakes his head. _Students_. 

He takes the stairs, two at a time, throws open the door and walks into Erwann’s room. He’s making enough noise for Erwann to stir awake. He blinks sleepily at Ismaël.

“What’s the time?” Erwann asks. 

“Ten in the morning.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

Ismaël nods, walking to the bed. He sits on the edge and takes the new set of keys out of his pocket. 

“I made a copy for you,” Ismaël says, offering the keys. 

He doesn’t have to explain what they are for. Erwann stares at him, jaw hanging and hair standing up in every direction. He takes the keys and puts them on top of another pile of books. 

“I thought maybe we could stay there tonight, if—” Ismaël doesn’t get to finish because next thing he knows, Erwann is launching at him. 

The keys aren’t meant as the invitation Erwann takes it for. They aren’t meant to get him laid because Ismaël is already late and he only came to Erwann’s place now so he had an excuse to escape. But then Erwann is throwing a leg over Ismaël hips. And, even though this was not the original plan, Ismaël can roll with it. 

 

Later, nothing will hide his hickey except popping his collar. He groans in front of the mirror. There is no way Alice will let him live this one down.


End file.
